


Cravings

by a_nonny_moose



Series: My AU [48]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 03:03:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14155248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Bim isn't a cannibal, but...Prompted by an Anonymous ask over on tumblr!





	Cravings

“I kill a dude _one_ time, and this is what happens?”

“Look,” Wilford laughed, scrolling down the page, “it could be worse, at least they like you.”

“Yeah.” Bim looked back at the computer, he and Wilford looking through fanart for inspiration. Something stirred quietly in his chest: hot, fragile. “Yeah, I guess they do.”

Wilford shook his head, turning his attention back to the screen. “Anyway,” he muttered, clicking, “I did have something to ask.”

“Mm?” Bim’s fingers twitched in his lap, on edge. “What’s that?”

A moment of suspended silence, Wilford clicking, Bim trying to think of the most effective escape routes, should Wilford pull a knife—

“ _Do_ you eat…y’know, humans?” Wilford spun in his chair, eyebrows raised. 

“Do I _what_?” Bim slid back in his seat, fists curled. “No, of course not—why—what—I’ve never—”

Wilford laughed, booming, and Bim nearly flinched. “Would you like a taste?”

“ _Will_.”

“Oh, come on,” Wilford huffed, slapping Bim on the shoulder. “I’m just teasing, kid.”

Bim shook his head, trying not to giggle. “You’re not funny, Will.”

“Obviously I am.” Wilford turned his full attention away from Bim again, clicking on a post. “Though… well, never mind.”

“What?”

There was silence for a few moments, idle. Bim looked over Wilford’s shoulder as he made a few notes, scrolling on.

“You know how the fans work,” Wilford muttered, a touch of uncharacteristic bitterness. 

“How they work?”

“How they make us, _us_.” Wilford didn’t look up, but his hands stilled for a moment. “You understand, Trimmer?”

“You mean how they gave Dark fangs, and they let you fade—”

“Yeah.” Wilford cut him off, waving his hand. “That.”

Bim paused, wondering if he’d crossed a line. “So… what about it?”

“Well,” Wilford swung around on a new tack, changing subject, “you’ve started that ridiculous windowsill garden in the studio—”

“—they’re just _flowers_ , Will—”

“—yeah, yeah.” Wilford pulled up a picture, turning the screen. “Well, here’s one explanation.”

Bim leaned forward, watching. Wilford flicked through fanart: Bim with flowers, Bim in a greenhouse, Bim surrounded by greenery, Bim—”

“Is that a _dragon_?”

“A flower dragon.” Wilford squinted at it before scrolling down again. “But you see what I mean.”

Bim crossed his arms, thinking. He was his own person, of course he was. Even if a million or so fans (twenty million, by the latest count) wanted him to be a gardener, the choice, the motivation, was his alone. 

Right?

“They hold a lot more power than you think,” Wilford murmured, shooting Bim a look. “Fangs, fading, all of it.”

“What about it?” Bim huffed, pushing the idea aside, and Wilford looked surprised. 

“Well, if you ever wanted to _try_ human flesh, I have some choice cuts—”

Bim laughed and pushed Wilford away, rolling across the room in his office chair. “Shut it, Warfstache.”

“I’m _just saying_ —”

“No!”

* * *

Bim knocked on the kitchen door before trying the handle; locked, for little apparent reason. “Will? Is that you in there?”

“Trimmer!” Footsteps, and Wilford blocked the doorway. “I thought you were, uh, busy.”

“I finished early.” Bim stood on his toes to look past Wilford and his ridiculous pink apron. “What’re you doing in here?”

“Why?” Wilford shuffled out before closing the door, not letting Bim peek. “It’s nothing. A surprise. Don’t ask.”

“But Wi-ill,” Bim leaned forward, batting his eyes with the gentle wash of purple, a roaring in their ears. “It smells so _good_ , I could just—” closer, brushing Wilford’s cheek, breathing in his ear, “—eat it up.”

Wilford went pink with mirth, a smile under his mustache. “Bim, it’s—”

“What?” Bim practically purred, hoping that Wilford didn’t see his fingers fumbling for the doorknob. “What is it, babe?”

A click, and the door opened, Wilford stuffing down his laugh. Too late, Bim’s aura faded, spinning the world back into focus: the bloodstains on Wilford’s apron, the knife behind his back.

“I’m, uh…” Wilford didn’t really have an explanation, looking around at the kitchen. Blood was everywhere, as it usually was, and the remnants of a fire-blackened corpse lay tender on the table. “It was an accident?”

“Were you trying to cook… it?” Bim took a step back, horrified at the hunger suddenly roiling in his stomach, his heart in his ears. 

“Um. No.” Wilford shouldered Bim aside to dig through the carnage, limbs and viscera strewn haphazardly across the table. A moment, and Wilford held up an arm, half-burnt. “I’m helping Doc study burn victims and—"

“I don’t want to hear it.” Bim turned, hurried. Any other time, he’d listen with detached interest. Just now, the hunger starting to tie his throat in knots took precedence. 

* * *

“Is that a falafel?”

“’Oo ‘ou ‘ant ‘ome?” Bim offered Wilford the box without looking up, scribbling notes.

Wilford took one, settling into a chair across from Bim. “What’s up?”

“Working,” Bim muttered, swallowing hard. 

“You… okay?” Wilford started, tentative.

Bim glanced up, catching Wilford’s eyes with his own. Wilford wasn’t often nervous, but the feverish heat in Bim’s eyes gave him a flash of unease. 

“I’m fine.”

“O…kay.”

They sat in silence for a little longer, Bim’s pen scratching over paper, Wilford chewing. 

Finally, Bim pushed the pad of paper towards Wilford, stuffing another falafel into his face. “What d’you think?” he managed, looking away, unable to hide the electricity that bounced his heart up and down. 

Wilford scanned the pages, an annotated script. Bim stole glances as Wilford read, seeing his brow furrow, then shoot up, and finally, catch Bim staring.  

“Trimmer, this is…”

“If it’s dumb, we can—”

“I love it, shut up.” 

Bim grinned, looking down into his lap. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Wilford hopped up, dropping the script and his knife on Bim’s lap. “C’mon, I want to show you something.”

“Is it a knife?”

“Maybe.”

Bim stood, grinning to himself. Strange cravings under control, and Wilford on board to _bring_ them under control—it only reminded him of spite, things that Dark would do. 

After all, it didn’t matter if or when Bim gave in. 

All that mattered was that he was in control. 


End file.
